


Companionship

by Bool_Ji



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: Coming of Age, Friendship, Implied Gay Canon Character, Implied Parental Abuse, Mentor/Protégé, Other, pre game
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-28
Updated: 2016-03-22
Packaged: 2018-05-23 19:46:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6128097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bool_Ji/pseuds/Bool_Ji
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Djura had three companions...until he didn't.</p><p>IN THIS CHAPTER: Djura gets some conflicting advice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Gentle

Djura goes off the rails the best way he knows: he builds a bomb. Whether or not this is a subversive act depends on who you ask. To the average Yharnamite, the thought of hunters creating huge stockpiles of high explosive may strike them with terror. Others might be glad their guardians are sufficiently prepared to launch counterattacks against monsters in the night.

As for Djura himself: he’s not a hunter. Yet. Which is why his opinion concerns only himself. Which is why he’s building the bomb. It’s his initiation.

He chances a second’s lapse in focus to flick his head, fling away the drop of sweat threatening to fall into his witch’s brew of powders and pastes. Of course they trust the newcomers with volatile, emotional chemicals. It’s a test not only of knowledge, but of bravery. Only the truly dead-set hearts are willing to cram temperamental gels and liquids into a tiny chamber, snake a charge through its heart, and seal it up tighter than a vicar’s knickers. When failure has a good chance of blowing one’s face off, the cowards are weeded out.

There’s a symbolic element to this Djura can’t ignore, though he’s sure some of his elders and contemporaries alike didn’t give it half a thought. The gray residue that smooths his fingers might as well be his father’s ashes. _I’m sorry_ , he caresses him, _I’m sorry. This isn’t what you wanted for me, but I can’t follow that path. The alleys and corridors are more home to me than the avenues and boulevards. Why couldn’t you see that?_

The lid he presses down is that of his mother’s coffin. _Bless you, mother dearest_ , comes his breath, calm and slow and burning like acid in his throat, _You had the patience of a saint. When I came home reeking of the fish vendors on the docks or with rouge on my cheeks or with a man I kissed good night, you met them all with a smile. Were you resigned to having a strange, wild son, or did my antics truly make you happy? Whether defeated or proud, know I appreciate the fortune you left me._

He signs his name on the top of the bomb. _Wherever you are, I hope this pleases you both_ , he thinks, _Father, a regular income. Mother, my own way of attaining it. Now rest in peace, you two. For raising me, you’ve earned it._

Djura distantly hears the sound of a bridge burning. Bombs will do that.

Since he’s retained all of his limbs, he’s passed the test. His superiors gently, quietly lead him outdoors. There will be time to celebrate later. For now, it’s about catching his breath and wiping his brow dry on his arm and coming down from holding his life in his hands. Sudden, loud noises after constructing an explosive, his elders have learned, tend to embarrass the initiate, unless they’re wearing brown pants, and are thus unsuitable for the grave atmosphere.

Djura’s heart still leaps in his chest when the badge is hung around his neck. He’s officially a Powder Keg.

\- - -

“I knew you’d make a good match for us the moment I saw you in a dress.”

Djura scoffs, drink sloshing. It’s only his second of the night, but the mix of blood and booze is heady even to someone not a scant five-foot-six and sixteen years of age. “That wasch one role. _One role_. They needed schome’un small ‘n thin, and I fit the bill.”

“For what it’s worth, you owned the performance.”

Souma smirks from his seat on the stairs in Djura’s family home. The dress incident had taken place not quite fifteen months ago. The boy actor – with both a frame and a voice suitable to play a girl – had guts to get up on a stage in front of dozens of people and behave like an utter fool. Why Souma decided to linger after the show, slip into the bowels of the theater, and ask if that was the life he really wanted, he isn’t sure. Perhaps he just knew how to pick ‘em, because three months after that, with both parents dead, the boy actor, a bit taller, a bit hairier, sought him out and asked him to make him a hunter. He obliged.

“You juscht wanted to schee a – a brat in a schkirt,” Djura splatters, “Depraved fiend.” He takes a long swallow, pauses, and adds, “Sorry. I don’t mean that.”

Souma chuckles. Despite Djura’s trek towards inebriation, he has a point. The Powder Kegs are heretics. As far as the Church Workshop is concerned, they’re _all_ depraved fiends. When his student isn’t looking, he reaches into his shirt and wraps his palm around the old Firing Hammer badge he wears. It belonged to his father, and his father before him. Sometimes he wonders what grandfather would think of his workshop now; if he foresaw this fate.

If he did, he’s saddled Souma with two burdens. One: the discomfort of Yharnam natives asking if he came to have his squint fixed, if his skin was discolored by illness, even though he himself called the city home. Two: the distrust and occasional contempt from other hunters. Souma rolls with the punches. The Oto were ahead of their time, and the Powder Kegs carry their mantle of innovation. The Church can have their sticks. The Kegs have the future.

Speaking of which, Djura’s eyes are blurry and he’s having trouble staying in his chair. Souma gets up and sets a hand on the new recruit’s shoulder. “You’ve had a long day. You should get to bed before the sun beats you do it.”

“Sun beasts?” Djura blinks, the gears in his head too lubricated to rub together. “Lemme fasch ‘em. I’ll blow ‘em to kingdom come. I’ll blow up the _schun_ , jusct watch me.”

“ _Up_ ,” Souma admonishes, though trying not to laugh. Simply being near Djura is making him feel drunk as well. “Don’t make me carry you.”

“You’d _like_ that, you depraved fi–”

Souma hauls Djura to his feet and lifts him in a bear hug. The drink ends up spilled on his pants, but he doesn’t mind. Djura is a limp, giggling mess that can’t quite get his legs around Souma’s waist. Souma doesn’t worry if he wriggles out of Souma’s grasp and is dropped down the stairs, he’s beyond feeling pain.

Let the kid enjoy it while he can. Escape is a rare thing in Yharnam.


	2. Misplaced

It isn’t the first time Djura’s woken up on a street, but it is the first time he’s woken up on a street that links nowhere to a total mystery.

Standing, he adjusts his hat, brushes dust off his coat, and sizes up the workshop that reaches toward a gloomy sky. Looks like typical Yharnam architecture, although this certainly isn’t Yharnam. The city of Djura’s birth is a _city_ , not endless clouds and strange pillars far in the distance. He wonders briefly if they’re dark towers, but perhaps not; there are no beams to hold them up.

A doll sits on a ledge beneath the workshop. Djura gives her a vague once-over. She’s certainly a work of art, made with painstaking care to look as lifelike as possible, wearing tailored clothes and sporting hair Djura doesn’t doubt is human in origin, but when you boil it down, she’s just a doll. A toy. An expensive toy, especially this one, reserved for the children of elites. But just a toy.

His parents could have bought him one, but his father would have never allowed it in their house. Not like Djura wanted one, in any case. Although his interests were eclectic, dress-up wasn’t one of his pastimes.

Besides, his parents funds now belong to him. He could buy himself a dozen dolls if he so wished. But he isn’t _that_ strange.

Lost in thought, Djura doesn’t realize he’s wandered into the workshop until he spies a pile of books on the floor. _How to Pick Up Fine Maidens_ , reads one. _You ask their permission first_ , Djura thinks. He looks up and sees he’s not alone.

Now _there’s_ someone strange enough to own the perfect doll.

Djura lifts his hand. “Hello.”

The wheelchair-bound man peers up at him from beneath the brim of his hat. “Ah,” he says, “You must be the new hunter. Welcome to the Hunter’s Dream. This will be your home for now.”

“I can’t say I like it,” Djura replies, folding his arms and looking at the mounds of literature scattered about. Clearly there are no maids in…wherever he is. “I much prefer my house, my garden, and my workshop.”

The old man motions toward the workbench nearby. “You have all you need to hone your weapons here.”

“Are you sure?” Djura raises an eyebrow, frowning. “You called this a dream. If it is, then I can have some control over it, can’t I? If so, I will need more than a bench. I need a furnace. I need chemicals. I could use a hand with my experiments, because…” He trails off. Mere days into eighteen, his pride doesn’t care to admit he’s stopped growing. Sure, he’s strong enough to wield the saw cleaver entrusted to him, but he would sooner ask for assistance than be found dangling in the air again, unable to provide counterweight to the bellows. “Because the Powder Kegs are the future. Can your dream workshop truly support me?”

The old man doesn’t respond. Only stares at him, hands on his cane, and waits.

Djura scoffs. If this is what the Church hunters call a workshop, then they are further behind the times than he thought. Nothing more than sticks and stones, and they hang them on the walls like trophies.

He follows the line of a blade down to the bench and notices something familiar. Now that he has, he can smell it too. That sharp scent he could place anywhere, after getting it in his nose too many times.

It’s black powder, and there are vials of it on the bench as if waiting for him. He’s fairly sure they wasn’t there when he walked in.

Djura’s heart sinks into cold water. He reaches out for a bookshelf to anchor himself, for it’s the same sensation as touching that ethereal lantern. _I only just arrived_ , he thinks. When he’s confident he’s not being whisked away to realms unknown, he clears his throat.

There’s the barest hint of a smile on the old man’s lips.

“Ah, forgive me,” Djura says, removing his hat. He can’t meet that wizened gaze anymore and drops his eyes to the floor. “I’m sure your workshop is grand and will suit me fine. You see, I’ve only ever been to one. The Powder Keg workshop. I’m…not allowed in any other. We’re not regarded highly in Yharnam, an undue reputation, if I may say so, but one that has stuck, it se–”

The old man shakes his head. “Don’t overthink things,” he says, “You’re a hunter. Hunt beasts. That’s all there is to it.”

“Ah. Yes. That is what I do.” Djura dares to look up. The old man doesn’t appear to want to talk, so he chances a question. “I am meeting my mentor in the labyrinth. Where should I…?”

The old man nods his head over his shoulder, toward the door behind him.

“Right.” Replacing his hat, Djura tips it to the old man. “Thank you. I will be on my way.”

As he departs, taking a deep breath of floral-scented air, Djura’s light with relief. This place may be a dream, but he doesn’t feel lucid.

\- - -

“They say Loran existed long ago, but this is all that remains. Devoured by the sands, we can only guess as to the true splendor of this desert world. And that is why we are here, Djura. To witness the ruins of a civilization long departed.”

“And hunt beasts.”

“And hunt beasts, yes.”

Djura’s encounter with the old man still weighs heavy on his mind as he tromps through the dark, dusty corridors of the Loran labyrinth, obediently following his mentor Souma. The ancient fellow had a point. Overthinking is something Djura strives to avoid. Some would say thinking _in general_ doesn’t come naturally to him. While he draws the line at a complete lack of foresight, there were many times in his life where pain and suffering would have not come to pass had he spent more than a moment considering consequences.

One occasion he would like to devote some time to is the taking of another life. He may have had some odd hobbies in his youth, including chatting with menagerie keepers and sneaking peeks behind the scenes of wandering freak shows, but he never imagined himself actively killing another being. That was beyond him, he felt.

Until his parents died.

“ _Hold_.”

Souma throws an arm across Djura’s path. The sand churning in the air blinds the younger Powder Keg, but, squinting, he sees something stirring ahead. Shambling aimlessly, keeping together if only to cannibalize members who dare show weakness, is a group of stunted, matted beasts. A few wear makeshift shawls.

Souma draws the long club from his back. “Are you ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” Djura replies, swallowing. _Don’t overthink, don’t overthink_ , as he swings his cleaver to its full length.

“Good. I will leave one for you, so–” Souma clicks the club into a slot in the saws carried on his back. With a harsh scream and a shower of sparks, the whirligig saw comes to life. “Show me what you have learned.”

The beasts have noticed them. One lets loose a frenzied shriek. Djura spots its gleaming red eyes beneath its hood for a split second before the rest of the creature is reduced to red. Blood and viscera splash the floor as Souma’s saw tears the beast to shreds.

Immediately the rest of the group convenes on the older Powder Keg. Determined to shoulder at least a bit of the hunt, Djura reaches into his pocket.

The pebble connects with the back of a beast’s head, and no sooner than Djura sees the whites of its empty eyes has it swung around and pounced.

Reflex ducks his face out of the way; his shoulder takes the brunt instead. And a wallop it is, a brute, vicious blow that bends his spine and wrenches a cry from his throat. The beast is small but its claws are sharp, puncturing through three layers of coat, vest, and undershirt to the pink flesh below. The stench of decades of neglect and blossoming tomb mold drives spikes into his brain.

_Father, you’ve let your nails grow long_ , Djura thinks.

He retaliates with an upward swing. The cleaver hits with its blunt side, enough to knock the beast back. The flurry of attacks Djura unleashes comes from a dark place inside him. In the sprays of blood that soak him, he sees a different kind of monster.

“ _There_! That was nicely done, Djura!”

Souma, though similarly stained, hasn’t broken a sweat. Ankle deep in corpses and dripping with fluids, his smile is as perfect as a sunny day. He wipes his mouth on his sleeve, leaving a long smear on his face. “I knew you had it in you!”

Though the wound on Djura’s shoulder has patched itself up, a deep ache remains. He slams a blood vial into his thigh. The transfusion fills him with warmth and draws him away from the dark place as he recalls past doses, each one piling up on each other in a cumulative effect that makes him feel like he could bend iron. Who needs a workshop with the strength blood provides? Grinning, he says, “You doubted me? For shame! No beast is safe when _I’m_ around. We’ll have this dungeon cleared out in no time!”

Djura takes five steps. On the fifth step, the world is suddenly a maelstrom of heat and pain, his eyes full of colors he can’t describe, and he cannot hear out of one ear. Something sharp and hard and _hot_ is embedded there instead. A warped bell chimes far away, fading as he falls to the ground. Everything becomes cold and bleary.

As Djura dies for the first time, he glimpses a gaping statue on the far end of a hallway. There is a man standing beside it, jaw hanging and eyes wide in horror. A hunter.

Loran fades away.

\- - -

Djura doesn’t know how long he’s been dead, but he comes back feeling good as new. Physically, at least. His head is a buzzing hive of confusion.

_Don’t overthink it_ , he thinks, until the swarm calms down. Clutching his weapon tight, he retraces his steps.

Souma is nowhere to be found. But the strange hunter has lingered by the exact same statue. Djura gives it a wide berth.

He holds up his hands when he spots the Powder Keg coming. “I’m sorry!” he cries, “Truly, I am! It was an accident, you see, a common mistake!”

That doesn’t improve Djura’s mood. “Did I die?” he asks flatly.

The hunter grimaces. “Yes. You did. It happens to all hunters. A lot. You get used to it.”

“I…” Hope so? Hope not? Djura frowns, rubs his ear. “What _happened_?”

“It was this.” The hunter pats the statue. Gingerly. “The dungeons are filled with traps. I was hoping to dismantle this one, find out how it works. Did you know every dart this fires is…well, on fire? How, I wondered? A furnace inside, perhaps? If that is so, how does it still burn after all these years? So I attempted to break it open. And it misfired. Into your head.” The hunter glances away. “Again, I’m sorry.”

Djura is speechless.

Cringing at the Powder Keg’s incredulous stare, the hunter tries again. “Was that your first death? Could’ve been worse. Could’ve fallen from a roof. Of a bell tower. Not like _that_ was my first, oh no. My first was my throat being torn out by a feral pack of dogs. At least the fall was quick…”

A scream echoes deep into the catacombs. Soon enough, shapes lurk in the shadows. Firelight gleams off glistening fangs, sand dances on fetid breath. The beasts are coming.

Djura stops worrying about his first death. Not when his second is imminent. Lifting his blunderbuss, he shouts to the hunter over the sounds of monstrous growling and paw-steps on the cobblestones. “What’s your name?”

“Edwin,” the hunter says. His saw spear unfolds with a deft swing. “They call me Edwin.”

“Tell you what,” Djura says, “I’ll forgive you if we make it out of here alive.”


	3. Three

“It stood ten feet tall at the shoulder, with long, bony arms and a muzzle full of razor sharp fangs. It stank of the grave, its eyes shone with frenzied menace, and its claws itched for flesh.”

“Did we mention it threw fireballs?”

Djura shoots Edwin a ticked off look, but the other hunter doesn’t notice. Narratives are delicate things. The introduction of a plot point, if made too early, without proper build-up, can throw the entire story off balance. The audience is lost, their attention subverted.

Edwin seems to lack Djura’s story-telling talent, though it could just be the rush of blood in his veins, the taste of it on his tongue. Both hunters are still covered in so much of it, they could pass for rusted statues.

“It looked like a devil,” Edwin continues, hands clasped to his head as if he can’t believe what happened, “I was scared out of my wits. If Djura wasn’t there, I don’t know what I would’ve done.”

That earns him a few points back.

Safe and sound in the workshop, the two are surrounded by the rest of the Powder Kegs. The newer members are listening raptly, as are a few older hunters who smile and laugh. They know what it’s like to overcome tough odds; they want to share the duo’s rush. Perhaps a few of them, young and old alike, don’t quite believe the tale, chalking up the blood and the scent of brimstone to some childish prank.

It’s hard to disprove the tangible growth they’ve made, however. The way they both stand straighter. How they clutch their weapons with more confidence. The little improvements that could only come from a doll’s gentle hands.

“If you ever come across such a foul creature,” Djura says, “Consider its mad swings the wrath of a crotchety baroness and act accordingly.”

That makes even the stoniest of souls smile, if only because they take pleasure in anticipating the events that will bring this youngster down a peg. Souma is among them, and as the hype dies down and the hunters go their separate ways, he gathers Djura and Edwin to him. “I know what you’ve seen,” he says, “Well done, both of you.” Smirking, he sizes up Edwin. “You’re a new face. Tell me about yourself.”

Edwin flushes, stands straighter, remembers himself and bows slightly. “There isn’t much to tell, sir,” he says, “I am a hunter. I was tasked to the labyrinth to hone my skills.”

“You have no whiskers to shave,” Souma replies, “And your superiors sent you to the wastes of Loran alone?”

Edwin turns a deeper shade of red. “Yes, sir. In the depths of defilement, one finds true strength. Or so they say.”

“You found _me_ ,” Djura says, “Therefore they must be correct!”

“Correct they _may_ be,” Souma adds, folding his arms. “Perhaps adversity awakens the hunter in _some_ people, but not in all. Tell me…”

“Edwin, sir.”

“Edwin. Do you often dream?”

The look on the hunter’s face says enough. Hanging his head and staring at his boots, Edwin hopes he doesn’t have to speak. Or continue to exist. Sinking into the ground would be preferable to Souma’s spearing stare.

Djura elbows his shoulder, startling him. “You dream for the doll, don’t you?” he asks, grinning, “Or is it the old man? It’s quite all right. I don’t judge.”

“Edwin,” Souma says, “The Church is a powerful force, and it may claim to have Yharnam’s best interests in mind, but its methodology tends to be ruthless. Do you think it fair your mentors sent you to such a dangerous place?”

“Absolutely not, sir,” Edwin says, perking up. He meets Souma’s eye – cautiously, at first, feeling him out, calculating his trust, then with steel confidence. “Though I wished to make the best of it. I tried to understand the mechanisms of the ancients so I would have some insight to take back to the surface. And I killed your pupil. By mistake.”

“I forgive you,” Djura assures him, “You granted me another chance to witness that fine wrinkled fellow in his unkempt little hovel.”

Hunter and Powder Keg share grins. Souma chuckles. He’s not a superstitious man, but he knows he’s witnessing magic. Although his faction bands together out of a mutual love of innovation and explosives, partnerships are rare – due to aforementioned explosives. There seems to be something natural between Djura and Edwin, two young hunters forged by the same struggle.

With his help, stars can be born.

“First of all, those statues contain miniature furnaces within them,” Souma says, “Secondly, Edwin, have you ever considered learning how to build a bomb?”

The hunter nods, brown eyes bright. “Not until now, sir. I would be delighted if you taught me.”

\- - -

Edwin’s initiation into the Powder Kegs is graceful and well-received by his new peers, who are all too glad to see fresh minds. He gains an appreciation for complex weapons and big booms, even comes to enjoy them. He never throws away his saw spear, but comes to adopt a piece with an eternal, fiery heart.

The first time his boom hammer leaves a crater on the sidewalk, his knees go weak with joy.

Edwin rapidly climbs the ranks, earns respect, and carves out a niche as an expert hunter.

Pavel, in contrast, descends with all the subtlety of a runaway carriage.

“Is it true you’re only here because you slept with a cleric’s wife?”

Pavel shrugs. “She could not resist charm. I say to her sweet words, I wear good cologne, next thing I know I am grabbing clothes and jumping out window. It is not by choice I join Kegs. Clerics hate you. Clerics stay away. I take chances blowing self up over rotting in cell.”

Despite his abrasiveness, Djura likes Pavel. He reminds him of himself at his age, though with a far more criminal bent. Thievery, adultery, fraud – he’s done everything short of murder and is proud of it. “Only crooks prosper,” Pavel once said, “Noble men are idiots.”

“ _I’m_ a noble man,” Djura replied.

Pavel had only leered at him and said nothing.

Perhaps because no one else wants to deal with him, Pavel has joined Djura and Edwin’s merry duo. There have been fewer sightings of beasts, and Djura has decided to make use of the downtime. After months of design and weeks of tinkering, he has a workable prototype of a brand new weapon.

“You are going to blast arm off and I will laugh,” Pavel says.

“Nonsense,” Djura says, “I’ve made a career out of building bombs. I know what I’m doing.”

Grunting as he rolls his shoulder – the prototype could stand to be a bit lighter – Djura turns to the target dummy. The weapon works on the same principle as cannons: igniting gunpowder producing enough energy to launch a projectile. The experimental part of his piece involves preventing its payload from departing _too_ far. Keeping all of his limbs would be nice as well.

The trick is creating a batch of powder strong enough to maim beasts yet weak enough to not cause serious harm to its wielder. After numerous tests, Djura believes he has succeeded.

The stake driver’s maiden voyage, from beginning to end, is a complete disaster.

Neither Edwin or Pavel know exactly what happens. Djura is there one moment, a focused grimace on his face as he cocks back the primed stake, and the next he is _gone_. The dummy is reduced to smoldering chunks scattered across the workshop. Edwin rushes to stamp out the embers before they can burn while Pavel stands frozen, slack-jawed and trying not to think about the mist on his face.

“Not _again_ ,” Edwin groans, swatting out the sparks that dance against his boots. Looking back, he calls, “Hilarious, isn’t it?”

Pavel empties his stomach onto the floor.

\- - -

Years pass. There are setbacks and triumphs, horror stories and celebrations. By day, Yharnam hustles and bustles. By night, citizens chain doors and windows shut and trust in hunters to keep them safe. And they do. The Powder Kegs, ridiculed by their peers as they are, patrol the streets as regularly as any other faction, embers trailing them like guardian fireflies. Beasts come. Beasts go.

It’s been a long night and slim pickings. Djura doesn’t notice the gore on his boots anymore. He’s more keen to stroke his newly-grown goatee and watch the sun come up from the rooftop view with his friends at his sides. A ribbon of gold reflects off the blade of his stake driver, now a fully operational and extremely deadly trick weapon, his pride and joy. “Gentlemen,” he says, “This is not a bad life.”

Pavel scoffs. At twenty-five, he catches the eye of every female Powder Keg. He steals more than hearts, and Djura’s sure his stash is secreted away in the workshop somewhere, but he has yet to find it. “For _you_ , perhaps. Other Kegs laugh at me. They do not see use in making _small_ things. Fools. They will meet new weapon and call me hero.” He looks to his side. “What of you, Edwin? You have project also.”

Edwin’s eyes widen, taken aback, then glare at the youngest hunter. “I knew you’ve been spying on me! It’s none of your ruddy business, scoundrel. Worry about not getting your skull bashed in by the next woman hunter you tease.”

“They huff and puff, but they like it.” Pavel grins. “Especially red-haired girl with hammer. We would make two-backed beast in sheets.”

“She kisses _other_ girls, you fool.”

Pavel’s cheer evaporates. “Oh.”

Djura rolls his eyes, smirking. “There’s anarchy in the ranks, Souma. Won’t you do something about this rowdy bunch?” 

No response.

“Souma?”

The leader of the Powder Kegs isn’t looking at the dawn. His gaze is down, pupils darting at tiny movements of Yharnam waking up. Hands clasped behind his back, his fingers spasm and clench an invisible saw. Finally he shakes his head and looks up at Djura. “Excuse me? Problem? You two–” He whistles sharply, catching Pavel and Edwin’s attention. “Enough. Stop whining like dogs.”

Pavel’s savvy enough to shut up. Edwin and Djura, on the other hand, have known Souma for so long that they know something’s wrong. “That was sarcasm,” Djura gently says, “What’s gotten into you, my friend?”

With three pairs of eyes on him, Souma’s facade cracks. Sighing, rubbing his eyes, he says, “It’s nothing. I have much to think about. I am getting old, I have no family, no heir… I am lonesome, I suppose.”

“Think of this like so,” Pavel explains, “If giant man can find wife, so can you. You saw wedding, no? I have heard of breaking and entering, but on wedding _night_ – _oy_!”

The hypnotic odor of blood cocktail blooms as Edwin empties the bottle on Pavel’s head. “No blood can cure what you have,” he says, “But perhaps this will take your mind off it. And don’t _spy_ , for the gods’ sake!”

Sputtering, Pavel turns on Edwin. “I am only being good Church hunter!”

“If I buy breakfast, will you both be quiet?” Djura asks.

Edwin and Pavel bicker so often Djura could tell time by it, yet their verbal blows are softened by time. _What a strange brigade I’ve found_ , Djura thinks. Not for the first time has this occurred to him, but realization comes weeks apart. He supposes he’s gotten used to madness.

Pavel gives up first, shrugging. “May as well use your supposed fortune for _something_.”

“I would enjoy a spot of tea,” Edwin says, “By the time we’re in town, the stores shall be open. Lead on, gents.”

Three men begin the descent to solid ground when Djura notices the lack of a fourth. “Souma? You’re welcome to join us.”

Souma has returned to his statuesque pose, his slight trembling. For the first time, Djura spots a streak of silver in his hair. The leader shakes his head. “Go on,” he says, “The night was hard. I do not want…people. Right now.”

Djura waits for him to continue. Nothing comes. “Shall I bring you something up then?”

“Go.”

Frowning, Djura leaves him be and slides down the ladder towards earth. He did not see his mentor at all during the last hunt. Why should that be? They are companions.


	4. Confession

Djura does, in fact, have a fortune. Not enough to rival nobility, but not a small amount either. The southern folk would call him _nouveau riche_.

It lets him live comfortably in his family home in one of Yharnam’s better districts. His house is three stories tall, made of red brick, identical to the others in its row. It lies within walking distance not only to several smaller churches but Cathedral Ward and the Grand Cathedral itself. It’s an affluent district and it shows, from the brass hitching poles to the gleaming gaslights to the flowers peeking over the edge of windowsills.

Which is why Djura finds the homeless man sitting at the bottom of his stairs peculiar.

It isn’t that he’s afraid of him. Many times has Djura spoken to the less-fortunate members of Yharnam’s society in his bid to learn about the world. He knows it isn’t by choice they live on the streets. It also isn’t by choice Djura leaves them there, although he supposes, now that daddy’s dead, he can invite them to stay, at least for a little while. But then there’s the chance one of them will be a thief, which isn’t good, especially since there are explosives in the house.

A rat interrupts his train of thoughts. It’s rather large, but well-groomed. He can’t see a single flea in its chestnut fur. Jumping onto the banister, it stands on its hind legs and regards him with starlight black eyes.

“That’s a talented pet you have there,” Djura says.

“Her name’s Edith,” the homeless man replies. The rat scurries onto his shoulder and Djura notices the man is blind, thick bandages wrapped around his head. It’s not uncommon in Yharnam, but his seems to be due to ailment rather than Church mysticism.

“Excuse me,” the Powder Keg says. He has a hand on the door when the homeless man speaks again.

“Your name is Djura, isn’t it?” He pronounces it correctly, with the silent D. “You’re a member of the Powder Keg workshop. One of the highest ranking officers, in fact. Some would go so far as to say you are second in command. _I_ would. Which is why we must talk.”

Djura hesitates, then enters his house and shuts the door behind him. The homeless man listens for footsteps. None come. He can’t help but feel disappointed. Perhaps the rumors of the Powder Keg’s kindness are untrue. He’s about to leave when Djura returns, holding a steaming hot cup of tea.

“If we’re going to chat,” Djura says, “We should do it proper. Come in.”

\- - -

“Tell me, Djura. How do you feel about secrets?”

The homeless man’s name is Simon, and Djura doesn’t like him. The blindness, the lack of shoes, the rats (there are two now, emerging from the bags lashed to Simon’s back, eating pieces of biscuit on the tea table as delicately as princesses) he can tolerate. That he’s a hunter of the Church irks him. That he’s a hunter of the Church who knows the inner workings of the Powder Kegs and is scouring for more makes something dark in the back of Djura’s mind throb.

_I am only being good Church hunter_ , Pavel had said, after spying on a cleric’s wedding. Djura wishes he’d believed him.

“Everyone’s entitled to them,” Djura says, sipping his tea. He wishes he made a stronger batch, he feels like he’ll need it.

“What if a secret becomes so dangerous that keeping it obscured is a threat?”

Djura hates how calm Simon is. He could be discussing the results of a polo game. Maybe _all_ the best hunters started their lives as actors. “With all due respect, please get to the point.”

“When is the last time you saw your mentor?”

Djura’s heart pinches. “Souma has been taken with a melancholy mood as of late. He fears he is too old, too foreign to find a wife and produce a heir. He no longer has energy to hunt, and the scant times I see him, he does not wish to talk. If _you_ were truly the unfortunate soul your garb says you are, you would know the desperation and the sorrow he feels.”

Unfazed, Simon says, “I knew his grandfather.” He sips his tea, dainty, little finger out.

Djura frowns. “He’s been dead for decades.”

“Kaito Oto. He wasn’t one of the first, but he was close to us. Unsatisfied with the crude, copied tools our recruits made, he founded his own workshop with the goal of pushing beast-slaying to its ultimate limits.” Simon takes another sip, stares into the cup. “He was quite fond of strategy. Though it seems his long game is coming to an end.”

A savage part of Djura wishes he had his stake driver. He rises to his feet. “Either tell me the truth or leave. I tire of riddles.”

Finishing his tea, Simon puts the cup down. His rats race up his arm and perch on his shoulder. Standing, he says, “The future, like the past, is a mire, and every action a wave that disturbs the sand. What will happen, I cannot say, but I will tell you this, Djura. Keep your friends close. Fear the old blood.” He looks around the parlor. “And do not move out. You have a lovely house.”

“I’ve heard enough.” Djura opens the door. “Please. I’m sure you have a long night spying for the Church, so get to it.”

Simon doesn’t rise to the bait. Passing over the doorstep, something’s pressed into his hand. It’s hard to surprise him, but the sensation of flaky, slightly squishy dough catches him off-guard. “Thank you,” he says, pocketing the crumpet.

“It’s for _Edith_ ,” Djura sneers, and shuts the door behind him.

\- - -

Simon’s words stick with him. At odd hours they come, a persistently painful insect bite. He doesn’t want to think about them. There’s little room for thinking as a hunter, and besides, he’s content with his current paradigms. Yharnam is home to people trying to have decent lives. Beasts occasionally crop up. Beasts enjoy the taste of human. Hunters prevent full bellies. Rinse and repeat ad infinitum. Djura is paid to build bombs and interrupt midnight snacks. It’s a good life.

He doesn’t want to think about it but Simon has thrown a wrench into the works and the gears aren’t turning smoothly anymore. There are two people he trusts enough to talk about this with. Since one of them has become a recluse, he visits the other, finds him in the Powder Keg workshop.

“Djura, begone!”

It’s broad daylight but the workshop is deserted, their compatriots sleeping away the bloodstains of another hunt. Edwin broods over his workbench like an enormous owl, eyes wide with shock, tools hastily gathered under his chest. Djura has seen him look this afraid only once before, in a labyrinth years and untold miles away.

“Are you working on your project?”

Edwin shakes his head. “Leave. _Now_.”

Simon echoes in Djura’s mind. He takes a few steps deeper into the workshop, arms folded, aiming for nonchalance. Although he has long forgiven Edwin, Edwin has not paid for his mistake. Thorns twist in his belly for resorting to this, the seedlings of dark thoughts. “And what if I don’t? Will you kill me again?”

Edwin bows his head, sighing. “You’re my partner, Djura, and my closest friend. This stays between us, or else _both_ our heads roll. Understand?”

“I do.” And thank you for making this easy, Djura thinks.

Edwin turns to face him. Djura’s breath catches in his throat. Although a timid youth, time among the Powder Kegs made his personality bloom. Foreboding and stubborn, Edwin has cultivated an intimidating image, a counterbalance to Djura himself. The weapon in his hands fits perfectly, a long blade on the end of a staff. Drawing it downward quickly makes the blade drop under the shaft, revealing the barrel of a hidden gun.

“Djura,” Edwin says, “I am a Vileblood.”

“You should shave your beard!”

Djura claps his hands over his mouth. It’s too late. Of all the thoughts that run through his head, that had to be the one to escape. If it was anything else, maybe the look Edwin gives him wouldn’t be so painful. Hurt, his partner turns back to the bench. “I knew you would not take this seriously. Forget I spoke.”

“No, no,” Djura says, rushing to the other side of the bench, palms out, “Forgive me! I didn’t – that wasn’t – it’s just – you _scare_ people, don’t you know? If you visited the barber, he could lop that off. I believe it would help.”

Edwin’s scowl deepens. “Half the men in this city have beards. Can the barber lighten my skin? Perhaps that would stop the staring.”

Djura strokes his goatee. “I don’t know. I don’t believe – oh. _Oh_.” He clutches his hat, tips it over his eyes. “Gods, I’m a fool.”

A callused finger lifts his hat back up. Edwin leans in, fixes Djura in his eyes. “You are. This is something I have known for a long time. So please, a favor. Think a _tad_ , Djura. That’s all I ask.”

Djura tries not to shiver. Simon cannot be trusted. Simon is a snake masquerading as rope. But Edwin he has known for half his life. “I will. By my badge, I swear it.”

“Thank you.”

“So…Vilebloods are real, then? I mean, clearly they must be, since you are standing in front of me, but I have not heard talk of them outside of roles in plays.” Villainous _roles_ , Djura thinks.

Edwin cringes, stands up straight. He runs his hands along the spear. “At times I wish your foolishness extended to your memory.” He sighs. There’s too much revealed now to pretend this never happened. “Yes, we are… _were_ real. I cannot claim royal heritage, but my parents were both knights, and their parents before them, and so on till time forgotten.” His lips twitch with the hint of a smile. “I was only a child when court was held. The costumes, the gold, the light… It was like nothing seen in Yharnam, and I will never see anything like it again.” Edwin’s eyes glaze over, hands balling into fists. “Mother introduced me to the queen. She was so beautiful…I thought she looked so large. Bigger than the castle, bigger than the sky. She laughed when I sipped her blood, and I wept for joy.”

“Ah,” Djura says, rubbing the back of his neck. The workshop feels very cold.

“It could have lasted forever, were it not for the Church,” Edwin continues, teeth bared. “They called us monsters and fiends and sought to exterminate us like fleas. I confess I saw little of that night and I do not dwell on it, for it fills me with rage, but what I did see… They came like wolves, removed of their humanity. They wore golden helms to blind themselves from any consequence. They poured in from all sides, relentless as the tide. I was only a child, and I saw a man’s head crushed to a pulp beneath a wheel teeming with the spirits of my fallen people.”

Djura isn’t sure he wants to hear more, but finds himself saying, “So how are you _here_?”

“My father was a _coward_!” Edwin snaps the spear head back into place. The sharp crack makes Djura jump, hat tumbling to the floor. “He _ran_! He abandoned his order and _fled_! I would have fought! I would have given my life for Queen Annalise!”

Feeling like the man in front of him is not so much a rational human being but an unstable explosive, Djura gently touches Edwin’s arm. “You were a _kid_. What could you have done? _Bitten_ someone?”

Edwin looks at Djura’s hand, shuts his eyes, and quietly sighs. A few moments pass before he speaks again. “Yes. Although…no. Realistically, I would have been slaughtered with the rest. My father made a great sacrifice for love of me.”

“Lucky you,” Djura says.

Edwin blinks. “Pardon?”

“It’s nothing.” Djura shakes his head. “Thank you for telling me this. It does not leave this room. You have my word.”

Edwin nods and takes Djura’s hand in his. The other Powder Keg’s heart swells in his chest. “It is a relief to tell another. It is a relief to have the Powder Kegs entirely. We are not bound to the Church. We are not heretics, we are visionaries, and I foresee greatness rising again.”

_He doesn’t know Simon_ , Djura realizes, _And even if he did, he would hate him_. Yet simultaneously, he wonders about waves.

“Djura? I asked if you like this.”

“Hm?” His hand is still held up. Retrieving his hat, he sets it on. “Your project? Yes, I do, quite a lot.”

Edwin gives a jackal grin, lifts his weapon. “I call it the rifle spear. My mother carried a weapon similar to this, though my memories of it are vague. This will show those Church bastards. A Cainhurst weapon reborn within the Powder Kegs – they would drop dead of shock!” He runs his thumb over the blade. “Sharp enough I _could_ shave. Perhaps you had a point, my friend. As long as you use the trimmings to hide your hairline.”

Blushing, Djura pushes his hat farther down. “It’s not that bad, is it?”

“It’s fine,” Edwin says, “It speaks to our partnership. Yours falls out, mine grows in. It is why we work so well together. We have attained balance. So tell me: are there any dark secrets _you_ wish to reveal?”

Djura thinks about it. Shakes his head. “No, not me. My life was rather dull.”

“It’s still a life I will always protect.”

Djura smiles.


End file.
